Of the Powers That Be
by Jane Lu
Summary: When the Rohirrim arrive a few minutes late to the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, Gandalf has to do direct combat with the Lord of the Nazgûl. Little did he know this encounter would bring him face to face with a long-dormant entity, and force him to ponder upon the state of Arda Marred through the Ages.
**I am loath to admit that the only thing that could get me writing now is schoolwork, so when my Tolkien course offered fanfiction as an option for our final project, I took it without hesitation. Since _Dawn of Another Day_ or _The Price of a Free Mind_ did not fit enough into our discussions, I decided to go for the next best thing and write an encounter of three of my favorite characters, Sauron, Gandalf and the Witch King in AU where Gandalf actually had to fight the Witch King.** **Enjoy!**

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The shattering of the Gates of Gondor was felt throughout Minas Tirith.

When the wrenching sound of iron and steel giving way under the Enemy's assault rent the air, the city's defenders felt all hope leave them. Their efforts to keep their stronghold secure had failed, and now they would have to fight to keep the forces of Mordor from advancing further into Minas Tirith.

But it was no hoard of orcs or men that lead the charge through the ruined Gates. Even before the Captain of Despair stepped through the archway, his dread aura sent all men in the area fleeing in blind terror. Even if they had been able resist the fear, none could have stood before the Lord of the Nine Riders to deny him entrance.

Gandalf supposed it was only logical that this task would fall upon him.

He urged Shadowfax forwards, which the horse did without hesitation, perhaps the only creature that was able to endure the despair. The Wizard could feel the Nazgûl's aura rolling over them both in suffocating waves as they came closer which oddly enough, weighed more heavily on him than the last time they faced off. Shadowfax seemed to move more stiffly than usual as well.

The Dark Lord has put forth more of his power into his most terrible servant, enough to pose a significant challenge to Gandalf.

With one hand he drew Glamdring, and the other raised his staff at the great black shape that came riding through the ruins of the Gates.

"You cannot enter here," Gandalf shouted, "Go back to the abyss prepared for you! Go back! Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your Master. Go!"

The figure halted, but only long enough to throw back the hood that concealed his face in darkness. Like a burst of spectral flame, his features leapt out of the shadows on the Unseen realm. He might once have been a lord of the High Men, for he had a hint of their fair visage passed down from the Elven lineage and a crown wrought in the distinct Númenórean manner set upon his brow. But whatever remained of his regal bearing was long eroded by his descent into the wraith-realm. Gandalf saw a gaunt haggard spectre whose pale eyes burned with the malice of his Master, whose deadly laugh was fell with cruel mirth.

"Old fool! This is my hour. Do you not know death when you see it? Die now and curse in vain!"

The Black Rider's sword flew from its sheath, bursting into flame as he lifted it high in challenge to Glamdring. Gandalf noted with some irony that he should use fire as his weapon, considering that the wraith had recoiled from the blaze he had summoned when they fought at Amon Sûl. But this was not the time for pondering whatever new powers his opponent had gained. The Lord of the Nazgûl was not going to enter Minas Tirith.

With a shout, Gandalf allowed part of his nature to unveil so that light surged forth from his staff. The Rider faltered briefly as the rays struck him in full, but he soon recovered and spurred his steed to meet the Wizard in combat.

Gandalf decided not to give him the chance.

Even as he began to ride forth, Gandalf already had Shadowfax charge towards the wraith-lord at full speed. The collision nearly knocked his sword away and slammed his body painfully against the horse's neck, but the other was flung to the ground in a heap of black robes and armor. To his credit, the Lord of the Nazgûl managed to recover fast enough to parry aside Gandalf's descending blade.

"This 'old fool's time is not yet come, and neither is your hour fulfilled, unless it be of your end. Now out you go!"

His opponent replied with an angered hiss.

Gandalf supposed that Sauron's first lieutenant would not fall so easily, so he set about driving the Lord of the Nine back out the Gates with a storm of blows. The wraith allowed himself to be pushed back where his riderless horse was pacing restlessly, and caught the bridle to swing himself back into the saddle. Though mounted once again, the Captain of Despair was no longer an immediate threat to Minas Tirith.

Gandalf rode after him into the Pelennor, his staff still flaring brightly in his outstretched arm. But the wraith-lord was not affected again as he met the Wizard head-on. His sword of fire clashed against Glamdring with a resounding clang of metal against metal, spitting tongues of flame that threatened to set Gandalf's sleeve ablaze.

He had to admit that the Lord of the Nazgûl was no opponent to be underestimated even if he was greater in might than the former king of men. He was well versed in the use of the sword, allowing Gandalf barely any chance to counter amidst the whirlwind of slashes. He was already having trouble preventing the deadly blade from getting past his defense, an effort that was costing him more ground as the wraith began to pursue him across the plains and away from the city. He realized that a test of swordsmanship would not end in his favor. He had to shift the battle into a contention of will instead.

Staff lifted high above his head, the Wizard threw down the last of the barriers that held back his true nature.

The sounds of the battlefield faded away as Gandalf became a presence entrenched in both the Seen and Unseen world. All of the orcs in the vicinity howled in pain, covering their eyes from the being of pure light that suddenly manifested out of nowhere. Even the Lord of the Nazgûl and his steed staggered back as if stricken by a grievous blow. The darkness over the Pelennor Fields lifted, and for a moment it seemed as if sun had revealed itself once more. For the first time since the siege began, the defenders of Minas Tirith saw a chance that they would survive this relentless onslaught and live long enough to see the dawn of the next day. There was a glad shout as the men of Gondor charged forth from the ruined Gates.

He was aware of all this, and of many more events that were happening in the confines of time. He knew the Rohirrim were riding as fast as they could to Gondor's aid, having been delayed by a slight detour through the Stonewain Valley. The Ringbearer and his companion had already escaped from Cirith Ungol and were currently struggling across the Gorgoroth. Aragorn had already released the Dead from their oath and was heading to the Pelennor as well.

He allowed himself a brief moment of gratified relief. Perhaps the hope was there after all. Perhaps they had a chance in this seemingly doomed struggle, a chance that was made possible by all of the toil these people were willing to go through.

Seized by a sudden burst of joy, Gandalf laughed freely into the wind, which bore his mirth upon its eddying currents and seemed to increase the strength of his presence. The Lord of the Nazgûl now felt like a sputtering lamp attempting to keep its dying light aflame, a fading entity that had remained in existence long beyond his time.

What Sauron had done to those nine kings of man was unnatural, even abominable. No mortal should live as long as the Nazgûl did, neither belonging to the living and the dead. Sustained by the will of their master and bound to his Ring, they have little remaining of their original selves. Whatever dread power they had was only an effect of their descent into the wraith-world, and had no ability to stand before the Light of Valinor.

Time seemed to stop as memories of the long years he spent as Olórin in the West came back to him in vivid detail. He was in the Halls of Nienna once more, standing before a wide window and contemplating the shifting mists that were the Walls of the World. He heard again a soft murmuring lament of the Lady herself, mourning for all that had been lost through the Ages. Gandalf knew that Sauron and his servants were numbered frequently among them.

Nienna did not leave anyone out of her pity. When Gandalf faced the wavering presence of the Lord of the Nazgûl, he remembered her song about the dignified lord of Númenor who once took great delight in studying the lore of all regions, whose love of knowledge proved to be his downfall. Despite his struggle against the will of Sauron, the Númenórean lord lost himself just like the others. The melody concluded with what was left of the man pleading for his end, the end of his five thousand years of service to the Lord of Mordor.

No mistake should have cost a man beyond the rest of his life. Gandalf could not see the wraith as his opponent again, not when he perceived him as an unwitting pawn he had not chosen to become. His heart was moved in pity, and he wished to grant the other the deliverance he needed.

 _Recoil no longer from light of the Ainur, lost one._ Gandalf reached out to the wraith, his presence now without the intent to overwhelm, but to include. _There is only peace and healing to be found._

The Lord of the Nazgûl shrank away from his hand with a hiss of pain. His former triumph over the Gates of Gondor was a distant memory. There was no defiance to be had in the full uncloaked power of a Holy One, a mere disembodied spectre in the face of one of the Powers of Middle-earth. Gandalf's presence threatened to burn away his being until nothing remained of the once feared Captain of Despair.

Gandalf did not withdraw his hand, but he began to weave the Lady's song into the suspended space they now shared. It was without words, yet it resounded wide and far into the shifting twilight of the Unseen realm. With it he openly revealed his thoughts, and the sorrow he himself felt for the fate of the Nine.

This had an interesting effect upon the wraith. He stopped recoiling from the light, and met Gandalf's gaze slowly with an unfathomable look. He looked more like a fallen lord and not an undead wraith, still proud and dignified but no longer in the prime of his glory.

His presence gave an imperceptible shudder as something shifted in the space. Suddenly, as if he had been jolted by an unseen force, he sprang forwards without heed of the light. His hand was stretched out towards Gandalf, and there was an aura of dismay around him.

Something _dreadful_ rent through the domain, ripping it asunder like a piece of parchment. Gandalf reeled backwards as his woven song was shattered into fragments, one arm flung up against the overwhelming malice that now stood against him. Despite concentrating most of his strength to withstand the assault, he noted the familiarity of this new presence, too formidable to be that of the other's and too _ancient_ to be of any mortal.

The Lord of the Nazgûl stood upright again, wreathed in flame and renewed might. With a terrible cry he swept a clawed hand towards Gandalf, and fire leapt forward at his command. Gone was the cowering wraith; in his place was a majestic king with a crown of fire, whose eyes burned with a vicious light.

Gandalf barely managed to dispel the wall of intense heat that came rushing towards him before his opponent unleashed another attack. He was having trouble withstanding the might of this new onslaught in his unveiled form. Even the Balrog of Moria did not possess such an overpowering aura for all the shadow and flame he used as his weapons. Considering that there was only one power in Middle-earth who would be able to do so, he knew that he now stood before a completely different foe.

The rest of the Pelennor felt it as well. The hope that the Gondorian forces had felt earlier was turned into despair. All men scrambled to flee before the column of fire that had blossomed in dreadful brilliance in the middle of the battlefield, which set everything around it ablaze.

 _Well met, Olórin._ _To think that you and I would face each other in ëalar during this Age._

He was suddenly not Gandalf the White, but an apprehensive Maia who had just received his assignment to help the peoples of Middle-earth in their struggles against Sauron. He remembered the iron grip that closed his neck in its scorching grip long ago in the war-torn fields of Beleriand, that pitiless smile he received before he was beaten into the ground, before the next blow of the mace separated his fëa from his body. He had never forgotten the sheer _malevolence_ he had been exposed to.

 _Long has it been since Sauron Gorthaur last stepped in direct intervention._ He said quietly.

There was a ripple of annoyance in the other presence, _Speak not of that name. I had the courtesy of referring to you by your true title, yet you will not do the same for me?_

 _Most would not name you 'admirable', Mairon._

 _I will when Middle-earth is under my dominion, when I shall restore its diminished peoples and earn my title as the unifier of Eä. All shall be fair and well-ordered in my rule, and all shall name me the Most Excellent. Stand not in my way, Olórin, lest you be destroyed beyond restoration? I will not show you mercy as I once did in the War of Wrath._

The Lord of the Nazgûl, along with the added might of his master, renewed his assault with increased fury. Gandalf lifted high his staff and met the rolling waves of fire head-on only to be thrown back; he was barely able to prevent the deadly heat from reaching him and Shadowfax, who, bless this steadfast horse, did not flinch from the flames that roared past mere inches from his hide.

However, their battle was already throwing the rest of the forces on the Pelennor in disarray. All of the orcs had fled since Gandalf unveiled himself, and the forces of Gondor were beset upon by the fire that the wraith was now pouring forth without regard for friend or foe. Gandalf knew that he must not draw this confrontation any longer, or he risked the lives of his allies. There must be a way to break Sauron's influence over the Lord of the Nazgûl and to end their battle without destroying their surroundings.

The thought of doing so sent a chill of unease rippling through his being. To face down the Lord of Mordor would mean grappling with him like he had done before. Gandalf would rather not experience the separation of his body and spirit, not for a third time. A direct struggle of arms would not end in his favor.

But perhaps he need not go so far. Keeping the other's attention on himself and not the battle would allow the others time to drive the enemy back without being affected by the wraith-lord's aura.

This was no longer a fight to be won through might.

Gandalf lowered his staff as he looked at the Lord of the Nazgûl, and saw past him the power that held its seat in Barad-dûr in a land rife with barren rock and dark shadows. Mordor was a desolate wasteland that probably came into existence during the disharmony of the Ainulindalë, and to hear its lord proclaim of order throughout Middle-earth was unsettling. When he recalled the various parts of history of which Sauron was a part of, all the times when he deceived and destroyed, his fear finally gave way to a quick anger.

 _Show me a fair and well-ordered Middle-earth under your rule then. What example do you offer? Will you continue to crush those who resist you when you claim you fight for order?_

 _It is but a temporary state of being, Olórin. Soon there will be no more of that._

The Lord of the Nazgûl conjured pillars of fire that rushed at Gandalf from all four directions even as Sauron continued to speak. Putting forth his entire strength to dispel the attack, Gandalf rode forwards when the flames parted around him harmlessly and aimed his blade straight to the center. His attack was stopped by the wraith's sword, which now appeared as a glowing firebrand against Glamdring's icy brilliance.

 _Speak not of order when you and your master were chief among those who brought misery upon Middle-earth. Have not you forgotten that Arda Marred is part of your doing?_

 _My master's ways are impulsive, rash to the point of folly_ Sauron sounded indignant, _I have no intention of following them. Arda Marred will remain as it is, but I_ will _end the disorder. Once I rule the thoughts of all races, you will understand._

 _Rule all thoughts like you do for your first lieutenant?_

The Lord of the Nazgûl seemed to increase the vigor of his blows so that every time Gandalf parried, the hilt of Glamdring dug painfully into his palm.

 _You should call me generous for sharing the gift of my will, Olórin. These mortals possess not the wisdom of the Ainur to learn from their mistakes, but I am willing to step in on their behalf._

Gandalf was struck with a strange sense of epiphany at those words, and he realized with some wonder that this was the first time he had ever spoken with Sauron since the latter descended to Middle-earth. The conversation revealed more about him than Nienna's laments ever did. He had forgotten much of Sauron's nature and his preoccupation with order. To learn that this trait continued to drive him on granted Gandalf valuable revelation, and with no small amount of confusion when he realized just how contradictory this all was.

 _You sought order in creation, yet you reveled in your master's deeds._

There was the slightest pause in the other's reply, _He is dead to me._

 _Not dead enough, it seems. You who desire order are following in his footsteps almost completely. Your land is far from an ordered society, not when it resembles the dark pits of Angband._

 _Olórin._ Sauron's voice was chillingly devoid of anger, _Speak not of what you do not understand._

If the more powerful being had spoken to Gandalf thus under other circumstances, he would have chosen to remain silent and draw back for now. But as he pondered upon how Sauron's nature seemed to be at odds with his actions, he felt that he could not leave the matter hanging. He had not missed the bitterness that had been in the other's words.

Why had he been so afraid of Sauron in the first place? Gandalf had long recovered from his demise, and his years spent in contemplation far outnumber his days in struggle against Sauron. Furthermore, Sauron no longer had the capability to overwhelm him in the same manner despite his strong presence with the Lord of the Nazgûl.

The wraith swung his sword again, and from its tip issued a bolt of flame. This time Gandalf chose to evade it by directing Shadowfax to swerve to the left, and back towards the city to put some distance between them. His opponent did not follow; Gandalf turned back to see that strangely enough, he looked less of a man and more of a nebulous cloud of fire and mist.

Now that he was not beset upon by the other's relentless attacks, Gandalf was mindful once again of the happenings of Middle-earth. But this time his vision seemed to expand further, far into the First Age and beyond the boundaries of Eä. He saw the formless expanse that sang with the Music of the Ainur before time began, heard the discordant melody that scarred the world before it came into being. How it continued to taint all of creation for the Ages to come! None of this would have happened if Arda followed the symmetry that had been planned for it by the Father.

There would have been no diminishment of the Númenóreans and no ending of the line of kings. The Rings of Power would have never existed, and the Lord of the Nazgûl would have lived until his appointed time before passing beyond the boundaries of the world, as well as the rest of the Nine. The Quest to bring the One Ring to the Orodruin would not have been necessary.

For a moment Gandalf grieved for Frodo and the trials he suffered for the sake of the Quest, and for the necessity of destroying Sauron, none of which would have come to be had not Arda become Marred. Sauron would have delighted in the order that was already there in the Father's designs. He would not have given himself to his paradoxical ideals of destruction and restoration, or have his desire to heal Arda twisted beyond recognition.

He would have kept his original name.

Nienna mourned much of the destruction he wrought upon Middle-earth, but she had never forsaken this name and its meaning even when he lost it to his fall. The times when she did sing about Sauron himself she sang about an apprentice who had gone astray, who would have returned to the West if not for deep-rooted fear and willful pride. The first and foremost smith of Aulë took delight in the work of his hands and his ability to shape objects to his will, but then sought to do the same with things that cannot be conformed to his desires.

Gandalf never truly comprehended her pity for one of the greatest threat to Middle-earth until now, and with this understanding he was moved with feeling. The Quest was suddenly forgotten for the time being, as well as the struggles of the Fellowship. Destroying Sauron would not heal Arda in the long run, not by a thousand Ages. Perhaps he could attempt something different, and carry out his desire to undo the Marring as was the desire of all Ainur, if only just a little.

 _Come back to the West, Mairon._ His voice was soft.

 _And do what? Willingly surrender myself to the Valar's judgment?_

 _They will not be merciless. Even your master, when taken prisoner, was given freedom to dwell in Valmar despite his role in Arda Marred._

There was a long silence on Sauron's part, but the flames around the Lord of the Nazgûl seemed to decrease in intensity. Gandalf could not sense what the other was thinking or feeling. The wraith's presence remained unchanged.

Then he moved, pointing his sword at Gandalf as Sauron spoke again.

 _There is no mercy._

The tip of the blade flashed in a flurry of dancing flames, and the world erupted into whiteness.

Gandalf was not sure what happened, but he put all of his strength into shielding himself and more importantly, Shadowfax, before the attack. He soon realized that the whiteness that surrounded him was burning at his defense with a heat so intense that he could feel it scorching away all moisture in the area. With a ragged gasp, he expended as much power as he could afford into keeping the shield up, hoping to outlast the assault.

It did not seem to stop, or even begin to lose its potency. The seconds that ticked by seemed to become hours as Gandalf's defense began to flag. When he thought he was about to collapse from the sudden fatigue that seized him, the whiteness lifted with fading clouds of flame that swirled towards the sky and disappeared.

He resisted the urge to slump against Shadowfax. The Lord of the Nazgûl definitely had no trouble of withstanding his own power, and would follow up with another attack that would end Gandalf if he did not recover immediately. Summoning what remained of his depleted strength, he readied Glamdring once more.

Then _something_ shifted in the edges of his vision, and he perceived that the tides of battle turning in another direction.

Far away somewhere in the Field a lone cock crowed its welcome of the new day, which was answered by the resonating blast of battle horns echoing from the Stonewain Valley. The Rohirrim had arrived at last to Gondor's aid.

The Lord of the Nazgûl snarled a curse, turned away from Gandalf and began to ride away. He tried to follow, but the state of unveiled power he was in wavered and threatened to disperse. He was forced to stop, and to admit that his strength was too spent for another confrontation.

 _I expected better of you, Olórin,_ Sauron's presence was beginning to fade as well when Gandalf became removed from the Unseen realm, _Do not speak of mercy on the Valar's behalf._

Then he was gone, and Gandalf was back as a weary old man who could barely keep his grip on his sword.

He looked at his surroundings with a sense of dismay. His battle with the Lord of the Nazgûl had left a large part of the Pelennor Fields scorched black and reduced the bodies of the fallen to ashes. But he was successful in his task of preventing the wraith from falling upon Minas Tirith and the fighting Gondorians.

Gandalf sighed and patted Shadowfax's flank, to which the horse responded with a subdued nicker. He watched the shrinking figure of the Lord of the Nazgûl until he disappeared over the swells of the land, along with all hopes of continuing his exchange with Sauron. He supposed that was all he was going to get for his efforts, no matter how much pity and overcoming of his unease he experienced.

By now the Rohirrim had charged into the battle and routed the forces of Mordor in the northern fields with the continuous sounding of their horns. They came in from the West, having ridden without rest far from Edoras. For a moment it seemed as if the hosts of the Valar had come forth from Aman as of old, with Oromë leading the charge as he blew his hunting-horn. But perhaps this time they would not be on a quest to destroy, but to bring renewal and healing from their realm of unsullied light.

The last Unmarred region of Arda, the Blessed Lands. Not all who leave it will return, and those who do would mourn for all who would never be in the presence of the original design. This had less to do with mercy than with the desire they all shared, and Gandalf should have made that clear instead of calling upon the mercy of the Valar. Perhaps Sauron might have hesitated. Perhaps he might have ceased his war against the West.

And maybe perhaps that would have been a better ending for all of them, an ending that had no more laments for the lost.

A wind blew in from the West, sending what remained of the grassy plains rippling in undulating waves. There was a faint fresh scent in its currents, and it reminded Gandalf of fairer times in a younger Age.

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 **Thank you for reading!**


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